Oh, William Klein, how I love you. Delphine Seyrig in a spangly leotard, three rockin’ wrestlers, and a superhero-cum-quarterback-cum-fascist cowboy delight. Oh, and Serge Gainsbourg (off-screen) playing the piano. So much to admire in MR. FREEDOM’s (1969) bombast.

Little Richard Attenborough’s “choirboy’s looks and killer’s cold stare” in BRIGHTON ROCK (1947). Perhaps inspiration for his naturalist brother’s nature series on reptiles and amphibians: Life in Cold Blood?

Eldridge Cleaver and fellow African revolutionaries in Algiers, meeting during the Pan-African Cultural Festival. My favorite of his diatribes: “F*@# Queen Victoria to her bones!”

Klein works the Helvetica credits, as per usual, here hurtling at us, in ELDRIDGE CLEAVER, BLACK PANTHER (1970).

And as much as Cleaver likes to talk, this guy, below, doesn’t want to. See the ringing telephone that gleams menacingly in the extreme foreground? SHE PLAYED WITH FIRE (1957) and this one may have helped her do it.

The film’s austerity in camerawork, narration, pacing, and use of irises in and out hearken back to earlier, simpler modes of moviemaking, and indeed, of life. Clef. Livre. Ciseaux. The ordinary tools of an extraordinary filmmaker.

Truffaut—who directs and stars as Dr. Itard—dedicated L’ENFANT SAUVAGE (1969) to Jean-Perre Léaud, his very own wild child.

And “le purr” if you were the cinematographer on THE OCTOBER MAN (1947). I’m talking about you, Erwin Hillier:

Train whistles really do a number on the psyches of post-war Brits, here and in Brief Encounter especially. Are there other films where train whistles toot themselves into the plot? Maybe Strangers on a Train?

Did Cassius Clay invent the media circus? Here he is, by that point Muhammad Ali, manipulating the *#@! out of his image.

By the way, he does admit that he shouldn’t have been calling himself “The Greatest” back in ‘64, as Allah takes that heavyweight title.

SO EVIL MY LOVE (1948) seemed like it would never end. As a rule, the period Brit Crime films (like this one, set in the Victorian era) are duds.

Patrick McGoohan as “Red.” He played “Number 6″ in The Prisoner.

And a baby Sean Connery, who played 007, of course.

= The number 13 truck in HELL DRIVERS (1957), which did incidentally bring a lot of bad luck.

And who’s this? A young David McCallum, of course. Whew!

Another gem from the PFA series Tea and Larceny: Classic British Crime Films, IT ALWAYS RAINS ON SUNDAY (1947), a deliciously dreary and multi-faceted account of a wet Sunday in Bethnall Green, London.

Three thugs having a spot of tea at a cart in the rain.

The bratty daughter removing her transparent mac in her parents’ grotty kitchen.

No, Jimmy, your butt certainly does NOT look fat in those swim trunks.

I MET A MURDERER (1939) barely made it out of the silent era, with all those dramatic close-ups, overwrought orchestral crescendoes, and awkward edits. Plus, the leading lady’s eyebrows were about tweezed out of existence. (I know, I’m overly obsessed with eyebrow fashion through the ages.) But she did call their car “Auntie” and James Mason’s character shot his wife because she shot his border collie.  Fair enough.

Oh, yeah, there was another movie in this double bill:

Even three-strip Technicolor couldn’t save this. When the lights went up, one of the PFA regulars loudly pronounced it a “stinker.”

FOOTSTEPS IN THE FOG (1955).

Hello? Yes, this is Clive.

Oh, how lovely to hear from you!

Yes. It was quite a film, in fact, it is a bit of an OBSESSION (1949) of mine.

Uh-huh.

Yes, Monty the dog saves the day, but it is in fact the cat that alerts the police.

Um-hm. Oh, yes, I did see Lucy at the screening. She didn’t take her usual seat, even when one of the regulars offered to scootch over.

No, she’s not that particular. I know.

Um-hm.

Oh, then the other regular mentioned that she’d like to have her ashes buried in the theater!

I know! I almost cannot believe it either!

Yes, the Tea and Larceny series at the PFA is a must-see all around.

See ya, pal!

Oh?

American slang, you say?

Well, Mr. MacGuffin, I have to ring off now.

All right. Good-bye.

Joseph Losey’s opening sequence makes the audience feel complicit in Van Heflin’s crimes in THE PROWLER (1950).